The Conspiracy
by TheSapphireSky
Summary: Five acquaintances gather together and scheme to bring Sherlock and Molly together. But with Molly moving away and Sherlock refusing to fight for her, their meddling may be too late.
1. The M Conspiracy

On a normal, dreary London morning, five chilled and somewhat forlorn friends were gathered in a small café on the outskirts of the city. The establishment was nearly empty, dirty windows and cracking paint creating an atmosphere of 'up-to-no-good.'

Two middle-aged men and three women of varying ages sat tightly around a table, each cradling a cup of hot tea or coffee to fight off the bitter chill from the drafty door.

'It's true,' the bespectacled man sighed. 'She's already given me her notice.'

The younger woman nodded in resignation, 'Her flat is packed and her landlord has already gotten another tenant. She's out at the end of the month.'

The other man remained silent, but raised an eyebrow in thought.

The two older women exchanged worried looks.

'I'd say it would be best for the both of them, but…' the younger woman trailed off tellingly.

'But you've seen how they are when the other isn't around. No other word for it; heartbroken,' the man with the glasses finished for her. The rest nodded in agreement, aside from the still motionless man.

'So what do we do about it?' One of the older women asked, looking around the group.

The silent man slowly reached into the pocket of his suit, pulling out a notebook. With confident aplomb, he cleared his throat and flipped to the first page.

'I'm glad you asked.'


	2. Mike

**Mike**

If there was one thing Mike Stamford knew he was hopelessly awful at, it was acting. At the risk of sounding self-important, he considered himself far too kind and honest to commit any form of subterfuge. Not to mention, the last time he tried to get anything past his wife, he slept on that god-awful sofa for a week.

But this time was different. This was for the greater good.

Taking a deep breath, he picked up his office phone.

Showtime.

* * *

><p>Molly groaned as her mobile started playing a lively jig. Navigating the cardboard ocean that was once her lounge, she scrambled to grab the vibrating phone on the kitchen counter.<p>

She frowned at the caller ID. Mike Stamford.

Her last day was yesterday. And she had been sure to finish up all the paperwork and clear out her office before she left.

So why would Mike be calling?

'Hi, Mike,' she answered, a cheerful, yet confused note in her tone.

'Oh, Molly, thank goodness! Listen, I need you to come in,' Mike burst out, nearly breathless.

She started in surprise, 'Mike… Um, I-I'm not employed at Bart's anymore, I can't-'

'HR hasn't processed your paperwork, yet,' Mike interrupted frantically, 'so you're still legally allowed to work here, and we desperately need you down here. The temporary pathologist hasn't shown and there's no one to supervise the interns and we're legally obligated to provide them with lab access-'

'Alright, fine, fine,' Molly sighed. 'I'll be there in… twenty minutes? Okay?'

Mike breathed a shaky sigh of relief, 'Thank you, Molly. The receptionist has your badge, and your access codes should still work. Thanks again!'

Molly hummed a goodbye and ended the call.

Closing her eyes, she took several deep breaths. She'd already come to terms with leaving her position at Bart's. And here she was, being thrust right back in without enough time to even move on.

With one last sigh, she grabbed her bag and made the familiar trek to St. Bart's.

* * *

><p>John Watson had seen many strange sights in his life. Between his time as an army doctor and his adventures with Sherlock Holmes to marrying a former assassin, he fully believed nothing would ever surprise him.<p>

Then again, a gloomy Sherlock Holmes was an anomaly, something nobody could have possibly foreseen.

For three weeks, the detective had not spoken outside of anything case related. His violin tucked under his chin, the drawn-out, melancholy melodies torn from its strings, however, spoke volumes.

John had tried to get Sherlock to explain exactly what was wrong, but Sherlock had merely huffed and plopped onto the sofa like a sulking adolescent.

So there they sat, Sherlock curled up on himself and John tapping his hands against the arms of his chair, anticipating their next case. John was beginning to grow agitated from sitting still. It was his day off from the clinic and Mary had nearly shoved him out the door, demanding some quiet time alone with the baby. Something that she couldn't have with John pacing mindlessly around the house, trying to find something to do.

It was a great relief to the blogger when a muffled ringing came from the sofa area.

'Finally,' he exhaled.

Several seconds passed and neither moved. Rolling his eyes, John rose from his chair and leaned over the pouting detective. He pulled the mobile from dressing gown's pocket, shooting Sherlock a practiced, 'disappointed father' look.

'Hello,' John answered.

'John? It's Mike,' the muffled voice on the other end sounded rushed. 'Listen, could you bring Sherlock round the lab?'

'Is it a case?'

At the question, Sherlock's ears perked up and he turned slightly to eye John over his shoulder.

Mike sighed, 'In a way. There's this compound found at the scene of a burglary the new techs aren't able to identify. We thought Sherlock could lend a hand, instead of sending it out. Save everybody some time, you know.'

'Sure, I'll bring him around,' John said and hung up. By now Sherlock had sat up and was blatantly staring at John.

'You'd better put on some clothes, mate,' John tossed the phone at him, 'Mike's got something you'll want to look at down at Bart's, his new lab techs found something interesting.'

Instead of the spark of interest John expected to see, Sherlock's shoulders seemed to droop ever so slightly and a small frown line appeared between his brows, vanishing almost instantly.

With a burdened sigh, the detective rose gracefully and stomped over the coffee table, 'Very well. But Mike should reconsider who he hires,' he called as he made his way to his room, 'the overturn of employees at Bart's is quite high and their quality is abysmally low.'

The bedroom door slammed behind him and, for what felt like the thousandth time, John rolled his eyes.

* * *

><p>The halls of St. Bart's seemed somewhat emptier, less… happy.<p>

Sherlock brushed off the unwanted feeling and strong armed his way through the doors leading to the lab. Ridiculous to associate a building with a person. The lack of Molly Hooper should have no bearing on his interest in whatever was in that lab.

But some distant heart string pulled taught at the thought that yesterday had been her final day.

Feelings. Regret, sadness, loss. Everything he didn't want to feel began to spread tendrils of emotion around his chest, tightening it until he became short of breath.

But with the practiced efficiency of a man who had been burying his emotions for decades, he composed himself and brusquely entered the lab.

Two techs were buzzing about with vials and papers, Mike standing watch. Sherlock's eyes immediately narrowed as he took in the man's nervous hand-wringing and slight sweat around the hairline. Behind his glasses, Mike's eyes were flicking around the room, but always returned to the door behind Sherlock and John.

'Mike,' John greeted, stepping forward and shaking his hand.

'Thanks for coming,' Mike said, a slight shake to his normally jovial tone. 'The samples are over there.' He gestured to the far microscope. Sherlock stared at him for a moment longer, but his curiosity over the samples overruled his curiosity over Mike's suspicious behaviour and he swept over to the table.

As he began examining the slides, he barely registered Mike leaving the lab. Within minutes, his suspicions were once more raised when he realized the samples, which would be confusing to an amateur, were easily identified by a practiced eye, even the somewhat moronic techs working nearby.

Just as he raised his head to tell John, the lab doors opened and a flustered Molly Hooper rushed in. Her hair was pulled back in a haphazard bun, tendrils falling out from the blustery London wind. She was busy buttoning up her lab coat that she didn't notice the other occupants of the room at first.

'Molly!' John exclaimed. She jerked her head up in surprise.

'Oh, hi John,' her gaze flicked behind him to lock onto Sherlock. She swallowed thickly and seemed caught between paralysis and fleeing the room entirely.

'I thought you'd taken a job out in Edinburgh? Mary said you had already left,' he asked as he pulled her stiff body into a hug.

Sherlock felt his heart beat thunderously as she stared back at him over John's shoulder.

'Yeah, well, Mike called me in for one last favour,' she forced a smile as she pulled away. Looking around, she frowned. 'I'm supposed to be supervising the interns. I just passed Mike in the hall and he said they were in here.'

The pieces immediately fell into place. Mike was trying to play matchmaker, forcing them to be in the same room and talk about what happened. Well, damn him, Sherlock was not a puppet and he would not be played by Mike Stamford and most assuredly not by Molly Hooper.

Sherlock shoved away from the table forcefully, 'Obviously, they are not.'

John and Molly flinched as his stool clashed to the ground, the metal sound reverberating off the walls.

'There is no reason for you to be here, Doctor Hooper. Mike was mistaken. You'd best be off to Edinburgh,' he nearly growled at the name, but the thought of Molly actually leaving caused a rush of foreign chemicals into his mind and it was all he could do to control his transport from grabbing her and handcuffing her to the door until she promised to stay.

He shook his head at the thought, hardening his heart once more against the long-ago emotions that were pushing their way out of their graves.

With a curt nod in Molly's general direction, he stepped around her and stalked out of the lab.

* * *

><p>Mike watched from an alcove down the hall as Sherlock nearly stormed from the lab, a confused and somewhat angry John shouting questions after him.<p>

Several moments passed and the door opened once more. Molly stepped into the hall quietly, her lab coat folded over her arm. She stood outside the lab for a moment, brushing a hand across her cheeks and the sound of a sniffle reached Mike's ears.

He felt his heart clench at the knowledge that the plan had not only failed, but had caused Molly more pain.

But with a quiet strength he'd always known she carried, Molly finally straightened her shoulders and walked away.

Sighing, Mike sent off a quick text.

**Attempt 1. Failure.**

Within seconds, his phone beeped with a reply.

**Understood.**


	3. Mary

**Mary**

Having left behind her rather shady past when she met John, the temptation to employ her training was growing greater with every passing second as Mary Watson glared across the room. Her target: one tall, lithe, robe-clad consulting detective. His weapon of choice: a defenseless, rather pricey Stradivarius violin. His intent: clearly to drive her to the brink of insanity by drawing his bow across the taut strings in harsh strokes.

How baby Claire slept through that racket in her carry-cot by the door was a mystery even Sherlock wouldn't be able to solve.

But in the battle of fierce staring, Mary wasn't wearing down. She'd been through far worse torture during her missions.

Sherlock quirked an eye at her over his violin and played a particularly caterwauling chord.

Then again, she'd been through easier torture.

Finally, Sherlock rolled his eyes and put the bow on the table beside him. 'You clearly have come here with a purpose and not to merely engage me in a futile and juvenile staring contest.'

Mary smirked. 'You're just sore because you caved first.'

'I did not cave.' He sniffed haughtily at the mere insinuation.

'Mmmhmmm.' She quirked an eyebrow knowingly.

He sighed. 'Just tell me why you have forced your presence and that of your spawn upon me for the past hour?'

'Am I not allowed to simply bring my daughter around to visit her Godfather?'

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her. 'You have never done so before, unless John accompanied you.'

Mary smiled deeply at his deduction. 'John's working a double shift at the clinic. I thought it was about time you and I had a little chat, Mr. Holmes.'

Sherlock shifted minutely in his seat, but Mary's trained eyes caught the movement indicative of discomfort.

'What is there to chat about, Mrs. Watson?' He rolled his eyes in a juvenile manner as he sneered, tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair impatiently.

She took a deep breath and leaned forward, dropping all pretense of friendliness. 'Molly.'

Sherlock froze for a fraction of a second. Were it not for the slightly increased rhythm of his blinking and the almost indiscernible stuttering of his tapping fingers, Mary would have concluded that he had no feelings about the situation whatsoever.

But her womanly intuition, compounded by decades of black ops training, was justified in that blink of an eye.

Sherlock was not unaffected by Molly's leaving.

Up to this point, Mary had not been certain of Sherlock's feelings for the pathologist. Her conclusions had all been conjecture, based on his distancing himself from any case homicide-related that would press him to visit the morgue, as well as the almost sorrowful softening around his eyes when he thought no one was looking.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow and sighed heavily as he turned his head away, 'I had hoped this ridiculous idea that I harbor sentiment for someone who is barely a tolerable acquaintance would have dissipated by now.'

Mary smiled, 'I think thou doth protest too much.'

'I am not protesting, merely stating a fact.' He stared dispassionately at her.

She sighed in fond exasperation. 'And yet, all signs point toward an emotional attachment. You are very good at deducing everyone around you. But tell me, Mister Detective Man, have you ever deduced yourself?'

He narrowed his eyes at her and tilted his head.

Just then, Claire began fussing. Her cries increased and Mary quickly rose to comfort her. As she held her daughter to her chest and soothed her, Mary glanced at the Consulting Detective. He had steepled his hands under his chin in thought, giving no mind to his goddaughter's distress.

As Claire settled down and began playing happily with her mother's shirt collar, Mary returned to her place on the sofa, cradling her close.

'Sherlock,' she spoke quietly, 'Whatever you believe about love, have you ever considered that maybe you're wrong?'

Immediately, Sherlock's gaze flew to hers and he very nearly sneered in reproach. 'I am never wrong.'

'"There's always something I miss",' she quoted softly. His frown softened slightly. 'Why not think about it logically? All the benefits of sentiment versus its detractors,' she suggested. 'Maybe you'll find that love isn't as foolhardy as you believe it to be.'

Silence descended between them as Claire gurgled happily, her hands pressing against Mary's cheeks. When it became apparent that Sherlock had retreated deep into his Mind Palace, Mary made to leave.

Once Claire was settled in her stroller and the cot packed away, Mary leaned over the detective and placed a fond kiss on his forehead.

'Remember that Molly's love for you is what saved your life. And the lives of those dearest to you.'

If he heard her, he gave no indication, but Mary left the flat confident that she had played her part well.

**Attempt 2, Phase 1 complete.**

Almost as soon as the text was sent, she received a reply.

**Acknowledged. Phase 2 begins tomorrow.**


	4. Mary: Phase II

Bundled against the biting cold, Molly bustled into the warm coffee shop. The familiar smells and sounds embraced her and she felt a rush of regret, knowing this would be the last time she would step inside the familiar café once she boarded her flight to Edinburgh the following morning. The cheery barista greeted her by name and immediately began whipping up Molly's usual latte as Molly glanced around for a seat.

The low table in the front corner was miraculously free and she immediately dropped into the plush chair with a heavy sigh. London traffic bustled by with its normal urgency, cabs weaving in and out of traffic, Londoners and travelers garbed in thick coats and scarves walked briskly past, their heads bent down against the wind.

Inside the coffee shop, several tables were occupied by students, typing desperately on their laptops and tablets. Others were immersed in quiet conversation. All were content to be there, comfortable in the piece of silence amidst an often chaotic city.

Soft piano music played in the background, the melancholy tune plucking her already taut heartstrings. Molly blinked back the sudden rush of tears and forced a smile as the barista placed the foaming mug on the table in front of her.

'Thanks,' she said quietly. Cradling the mug in her hands, she leaned back in the chair and watched the world she was leaving behind, a bitter farewell that she faced with regret. The hot liquid did nothing to soothe the ache in her heart, but it did warm her extremities.

Lattes weren't the medicine for healing broken hearts, especially one so beaten down and battered as hers. Time was.

She only hoped it wasn't too late for her to find someone who would cherish her heart. If that man would be willing to wait for her heart to be healed.

'Excuse me, dear, is this seat taken?'

Molly glanced up to see an elderly, white-haired woman indicating the plush chair opposite her. With a cursory glance around, she noticed the shop had quickly filled with patrons and the only free seat was, in fact, across from her.

'Oh, um,' she stammered, 'no, please, feel free.' She waved a hand in polite invitation, although she was disappointed to have her quiet time interrupted. She never did well speaking with strangers. And today had been about saying goodbye. Not hello.

The woman sat down with a smile and set her mug of coffee on the table. 'Thank you, dear.'

Molly smiled politely.

They sat in silence for several minutes. Molly watched out the window, relaxing and tuning out the background noise once more.

Unfortunately, the other woman seemed inclined to hold a conversation.

'This is my favourite café,' the other woman commented.

Molly nodded, but did not turn her head. 'Mine, as well.'

'I don't come into the city often, so I haven't been able to indulge in their coffee for some time.'

No such luck in having a solitary farewell, apparently. Molly groused to herself but forced a smile and hummed in response.

'Have you lived in the city long?'

Molly glanced at her. 'Most of my adult life.'

'It is a beautiful city, isn't it? So full of life and energy.' The woman laughed quietly. 'Too much energy for my aging bones. But if I were younger, oh, I could have thrived on the possibilities here.' She sipped her coffee, her eyes boring into Molly over the rim of the mug. 'I'm glad, though, that I hadn't.'

Her ice blue eyes seemed to pluck Molly's taut heartstrings in an uncomfortably familiar way. Molly shifted in her seat, curiosity and politeness leading her to ask, 'Why is that?'

The woman thought for a moment. Her eyes drifted to the somewhat dismal weather and she gestured to the people walking by as she spoke, 'For some, London is the land of opportunity. For others, it's a place to fade into the background. For me, it would have been the city I'd chosen over a family. As a young woman, had I been given a choice between settling down or immersing myself in everything London has to offer…well,' she raised her eyebrows and smiled almost contentedly, 'I wouldn't be happily married now and with the hope of being a grandmother on the horizon.'

Molly swallowed thickly and pressed her lips together tightly. The woman's words resonated too closely to Molly's own past and her future desires. She had chosen London to grow in her career, yet she had faded into the background socially. Friends came and went, but love… love had betrayed her. Millions of men in London and she had the unfortunate case of giving her heart to the one man who would never cherish it and give her his in return. She had tried moving on. And everyone saw how well that worked with the carbon copy detective; lovable, yet dim-witted Tom. No, part of her heart would always belong to Sherlock Holmes.

But after seven years of unrequited love, Molly was choosing to take the rest of it back.

So she had packed up her life and said goodbye to the future she knew she'd never have.

'Have I upset you?' The woman leaned over and placed a hand atop Molly's, bringing Molly out of her melancholy thoughts.

'No, it's nothing… nothing,' Molly mumbled, forcing a tight-lipped smile, too worn to keep up her usual façade of cheerfulness.

The woman tilted her head knowingly. 'Would you care to talk about it?'

Molly sighed and twisted her hands around the coffee mug. The woman seemed far too nosy for a passing stranger. But Molly was leaving London the next day. And unloading even a smidgen of the heartache she'd been carrying… maybe that would make her goodbye easier.

'It's quite a long story, complicated and actually quite pathetic,' she sighed with a rueful smile. 'I fell in love with a man, a brilliant and beautiful man, who… used me for work.' She blinked back the tears she thought she'd long ago finished crying. 'I hung on for years, hoping he would finally see me. But he made it pretty clear once and for all that what he did see was not worthy of his attentions.'

Molly turned to look out the window once more. 'Now I'm moving on. Or trying to, at least. I'm leaving for Edinburgh tomorrow, to start over. Find purpose.' She smiled wistfully at the couples passing by. 'Find love.'

The woman tilted her head in question, her eyes softening with compassion. 'What was it about this young man that you loved so dearly?'

Molly smiled sadly, a bittersweet feeling sweeping over her at the thought of Sherlock. 'His heart.'

The woman frowned in confusion. 'And yet he seems to be careless with yours.'

'Yeah, well,' Molly huffed in self-derision, 'that's my own fault. I let him walk all over me without so much as a 'by your leave'.'

'He doesn't sound like a very nice man.'

'He's not.'

The woman blinked in surprise at Molly's brisk assessment. 'And yet his heart is what ensnared you?'

'It's… hard to explain.' Molly rubbed the rim of her mug in contemplation. 'He comes across as a thoughtless cad. Most of the time, he doesn't intend to. I fully believe he was born without an emotional filter, so whatever comes to his mind spews from his mouth with nothing to censor it.'

The woman tittered, her eyes crinkling in amusement.

Molly sighed. 'But despite that… if you can reach his heart, he latches onto you like a tick. He may claim he doesn't love, but he does. He loves very few people, but those he does, he loves unreservedly, unfailingly. He would die for them.'

'And you don't believe yourself to be one of those?'

Tears pricked Molly's eyes, as she barked a laugh. 'No. No, I'm definitely not.'

The woman tilted her head and seemed to assess Molly, her eyes once more seeming to pierce Molly's heart with a familiarity that set her teeth on edge.

'Did he tell you this?'

Alright, it's time to go. Molly could actually feel her heartstrings fraying as they were pulled tighter with pain, the questioning quickly becoming far too personal. She reached down and pulled a few bills from her purse and securing them under the empty mug on the table. 'It was… nice to meet you, but I need to go.'

Molly forced a smile and stood quickly.

'If I may ask…' The woman reached out and grasped Molly's wrist as she walked past. 'Does he know you love him?'

The pain of his rejection, that Molly had so closely kept a bottled in a corner of her beaten and broken heart, came flooding back, burning her with humiliation and sorrow.

'Yes,' she hoarsely whispered, pulling her arm away and dashing out the door into the bitter cold. The tears she'd been fighting flowed in earnest as she rushed down the road, all the while wondering if her heart would ever heal.

* * *

><p>'And how was your coffee?'<p>

'Do be quiet, Myc.'

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at the biting tone from his passenger as she slid into the car. With a firm tap against the barrier behind him, the car pulled away from the curb.

'I was only inquiring as to the outcome of your endeavor, Mummy.' He refrained from rolling his eyes. After all, he was within batting range of that enormous bag of hers.

Violet Holmes sighed and folded her hands primly in her lap. 'Take me to Sherlock. Now.'

Mycroft frowned. 'That would be deviating from the carefully constructed plan we-'

'You will take me to your brother, Mycroft Holmes.'

Cowed by his mother's authoritative tone, Mycroft hesitantly tilted his head and pressed the intercom.

'Matthews, it seems we will be making a detour.'

* * *

><p>John watched in frustration as Sherlock plucked string after string on that bloody violin. No case worthy of the detective's attention had come by and John was ready to commit his first murder in order to be done with the clashing tones harshly breaking the stilted silence.<p>

He glared at Sherlock over his phone, not for the first time wishing he had the ability to maim (or kill) with his mind. His phone beeped with another incoming message from his wife.

Mary's texts had grown increasingly cryptic since he arrived at Baker Street, asking about Sherlock's behaviour and refusing to explain her curiosity. He frowned at the message.

**Has he said anything to you? Is he still sulking? Has he asked you about anything?**

Confused, he wondered what Mary was referring to. She had been to visit him with Claire the day before while John was working a double at the clinic. But she hadn't said anything about what happened, just that it was 'nice.'

**No. Yes. And no. Is there something I should be talking to him about?** He typed.

Her immediate response almost carried a vocal disappointed sigh: **I guess not.**

John nearly groaned in frustration. When he returned home, he would get to the bottom of her confusing, busybody ways.

'So, what did Mary and you talk about yesterday?'

Sherlock immediately tensed up, his hand clenching the neck of his violin. John stared at him, startled by the response to such an innocent question.

'Sherlock?'

The black-haired man snapped out of his frozen daze and once more drew the bow across the violin strings. 'Woman things. Not a pleasant conversation, surely you do not desire a rundown of the details.'

John shook his head swiftly, knowing it was a lie, but also knowing Sherlock would not hesitate to create a false, very uncomfortable discussion between himself and Mary simply to put John off.

The uncomfortable silence was broken by the sound of a car door slamming on the street. Sherlock groaned and lolled his head back like a teenager, his violin drooping toward the floor.

John stood and pulled the curtain aside to see a familiar black, unmarked car sitting just below the window. The buzzer sounded and muffled voices sounded from the foyer as Mrs. Hudson greeted Mycroft and… John listened harder and tried to make out the third voice.

'Mummy,' Sherlock grumbled.

John turned from the window. 'Excuse me?'

Sherlock huffed and rose, setting his violin on the table, 'My mother is accompanying my brother today.'

'William!'

John and Sherlock both immediately straightened at the authoritative biting tone. Determined steps on the stairs were punctuated by a string of threats.

'So help me, William, if your ineptitude at dealing with other humans prevents me from becoming a grandmother I will move in here and make your life a living Hell every sodding day!'

John's eyebrows rose to his hairline at the angry language spouting from the normally genteel matriarch of the Holmes family. As Violet Holmes' crossed the threshold into 221B, Sherlock jumped to his feet and immediately went to give her a kiss on the cheek before stepping quickly away, his eye on the heavy bag hanging from her fist.

'Hello, Mrs. Holmes,' John greeted her with a hug and a smile.

'Afternoon, John.' She smiled warmly, turning to greet him with a brief hug. 'How are Mary and the little one?'

John beamed in response, his chest swelling with paternal pride. 'They're doing well, Claire is starting to crawl already!'

Behind Violet's back, Sherlock rolled his eyes. John resisted the urge to stick out his tongue like an adolescent.

Mycroft appeared in the doorway with a haughty smirk aimed directly at Sherlock.

'Ah, so good to see you, Mycroft. Been dipping into your PA's stash of biscuits, I see.' Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the older man's waistline, his voice dripping with disdain.

John stepped back quickly as Mummy Holmes' whirled about and with an almighty thwack, chuffed Sherlock upside the head.

'Sorry,' Sherlock grumbled, rubbing the back of his head and mussing up his already frazzled curls.

'Tea?' John broke the tension and set about filling the kettle as the Holmes' sat themselves down in stiff silence. No one spoke as they quietly sipped their drinks, although Sherlock and Mycroft seemed to be having an entire conversation with their eyes and facial expressions. If John were to guess, they were each conveying different manners in which one would kill the other.

'I suppose I should ask what this lovely visit is about,' Sherlock groused. 'My ability to interact with the goldfish of the world has not changed, so why are you suddenly concerned about my spawning another generation of this charming family?'

Violet sipped quietly then set her cup aside and leveled a fierce stare at her youngest boy, but remained silent.

John sensed this conversation was not something he wanted or needed to be privy to.

With a nod, he rose to his feet and clapped his hands together. 'Well, lovely to see you, Mrs. Holmes. Mycroft. But I must be off, Mary will have my head if I leave her with the baby for too long.'

All three Holmes' stared at him, clearly seeing through the blatant lie. He cleared his throat and gave a cursory nod to the room. 'Text me if there's a case, Sherlock. Otherwise I'll see you at mine and Mary's for dinner Friday.'

Grabbing his jacket from the hook, he hurried down the stairs.

Taking a deep breath of the muggy London air, he relaxed. As curious as he was to know what was going on with Sherlock, the last time he was with more than two Holmes' in a room, there was a series of drugged drinks and shooting of people, and quite frankly he didn't need a repeat of any part of that anytime soon.


	5. Mummy

Sherlock watched as his 'friend' bolted out of the room. _How nice of him to leave me here at the mercy of… Mummy. _

He already knew what this was about. Molly-

'-Hooper,' Mummy stared him down.

Yep. It all boiled down to her. One pathologist who was continuing to throw his life into upheaval.

'You fix this. I cannot stand to see you heartbroken. And to see what you have done to that darling girl; why, I have never been so ashamed of you in my life!'

'I am not _heartbroken_,' Sherlock sneered. 'To be heartbroken, one must first have a heart.'

Mummy sighed and immediately shame flashed through Sherlock.

'I regret not having instilled a greater sense of compassion and love in the both of you,' she lamented. 'What did you do to her to break her heart?'

Sherlock glanced at Mycroft briefly. His brother narrowed his eyes ever so slightly, indicating he did indeed know exactly what had transpired between Sherlock and Molly.

He swallowed thickly. He had done his best to delete the interaction from his Mind Palace, but it refused to be erased. There were emotions embedded too deeply in it to make deletion feasible. The memory flashed through his mind, bringing all those unwanted emotions and flooding his body with radical chemicals that watered his eyes and rushed the blood away from his heart, leaving it cold and empty. But with the ease of decades of practice, he simply rolled his shoulders back and buried the feelings behind a steel door of disinterest.

'She is accustomed to moving on after rejection, I assure you she will 'bounce back' quickly,' he said, attempting to brush of the line of questioning.

With the force of a dozen agents, Violet Holmes' mighty bag sailed through the air, a dull thud and ominous clacking ringing through the flat as it hit its target.

Sherlock rubbed his shoulder, glaring up at his mother with a good deal of petulant hostility.

'When will you get it through that thick, genius skull of yours, Sherlock? It's clear to see that you love her. Look at how you've deteriorated since you hurt her so deeply. Mycroft says you didn't leave your flat for a week, you haven't taken many cases, and when you did your deductions were flimsy at best!'

Sherlock hunched down further in his chair in defense of her visible wrath. It had nothing to do with the fact that she was spouting the same logic his mind had been blaring at him for days.

No, it definitely wasn't that.

Still maintaining a cool exterior, Violet almost tangibly seethed with anger. Mycroft was wise enough not to make a sound, but Sherlock could see in his peripheral that it was all the British Government could do not to snicker at Sherlock's situation.

'I assume Mummy's awareness of Doctor Hooper's moving is due to your meddling,' Sherlock sneered at his older brother.

Mycroft fiddled with the handle of his brolly distractedly, his chin pointed up quite haughtily, 'I knew there were few others who would be able to knock sense into that rather muddled Mind Palace of yours.'

'I thought you believed sentiment to be a chemical _defect_,' Sherlock spat.

The chair beside him creaked as Mycroft leaned a bit forward, 'Although I believe sentiment to be a dangerous territory in which to venture, it has its advantages.'

'Since when?' Sherlock laughed, nearly spitting out his sip of tea.

With a weary sigh, Mycroft leveled his brother with a dangerous stare. 'If you would simply open your eyes, you would be well aware that no less than six months ago, I conceded that emotions held a distinct advantage and have myself begun cultivating an,' he breathed deeply, as though the words still pained him, 'emotional relationship.'

Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock took in his brother's posture, his clothing, even that ridiculous brolly he carried. What he had at first disregarded as impossible, was now blaringly obvious. The softened wrinkles around Mycroft's eyes, the absence of the perpetual frown line, the lack of fidgeting fingers, and an overall air of contentment.

'Anne is a wonderful woman, Myc,' Mummy crooned adoringly, rewarding Mycroft with a smile.

'Ah, so not only are you finally getting some, you mixed work with pleasure and have roped your PA into it,' Sherlock jeered, although the very thought of Mycroft showing _any _type of affection sent shivers of disgust down his spine.

As soon as the words left his mouth, he braced himself for another walloping. But none came.

'Sherlock.' Mummy sighed, as though defeated. 'Is it so difficult for you to see the good in loving someone?'

'As far as I am concerned, the pitfalls of love are greater than its benefits.'

Mummy shook her head. 'Do you truly believe that?'

Sherlock stared at her solemnly. 'Yes.'

His heart stuttered slightly. Mary had challenged him to compare the disadvantages of love with its advantages and he came to the logical conclusion that it was far better to avoid love than to fall victim to it. His mind looped the same argument _'Were I to engage in a relationship with Doctor Hooper she would inevitably be either killed by an enemy or heartbroken by my aptitude for callousness.' _ But the logic seemed weaker in the face of Mycroft's admission.

Mycroft… _Mycroft, _of all people, had just rescinded his lifelong stance on sentiment in order to be with his PA. Six months ago, apparently. Sherlock chastised himself for missing the obvious for so long. _'All lives end, all hearts are broken.' Despite that, Mycroft has allowed himself to fall in love. And he is the better for it. So far. And by doing so, he has put his significant other at great risk, as well as his own heart. Why?_

A gentle hand on his shoulder pulled him from his thoughts. Mummy looked down at him with compassion, a tinge of sadness behind her aging eyes. 'Love doesn't mean nothing bad will ever happen, Sherlock. It means that you want to share the good _and the bad _with one person, someone who will support you in those times and make you desire to be a better person. There won't be endless good days. There will be fights and struggles. But loving someone means staying despite the arguments, working things out because you'd rather fight with her than spend the rest of your life without her. It means taking a risk in giving her your heart, and trusting that she will cherish it, as you cherish hers.'

With a gentle kiss on his forehead, Mummy patted his shoulder and stood to leave.

'I was protecting her,' Sherlock mumbled, but suddenly he didn't feel so confident in his intention.

'Nothing in life is guaranteed; not her life, not your life, nor a happily ever after,' Mummy said as she stood in the doorway, Mycroft by her side. 'But when a woman loves you as unconditionally as Molly does, it's best not to break her heart in order to protect yours.'

Silently, the two left the flat, Mummy's final words echoing accusingly in her wake.

Sherlock steepled his hands under his chin. Perhaps his list needed to be edited.


	6. Martha

Resisting the urge to hoof it to the nearest hotel (though Lord knows she couldn't afford even _one _night after putting her savings as a down payment on her new flat), Molly desperately tried to calm the panic in her mind as she stared at the door to 221 Baker Street, overnight bag in hand.

Before she was able to gather the courage to tap the knocker, the door opened and Martha Hudson was pulling her into a hug.

'Oh, Molly dear, come in, come in.' She pulled Molly into a tight hug and ushered her into the foyer. Molly held her breath and listened for sounds from the flat above, half afraid its oft chaotic tenant would come bounding down the stairs. She let out a shaky sigh of relief when Mrs. Hudson shuffled her into the kitchen of 221A.

'Thank you so much, Mrs. Hudson.' Molly set her bag against the wall, out of the way. 'I hope I'm not imposing.'

Mrs. Hudson waved off her worries. 'Call me Martha, dear. And I'm happy to have you stay.'

'It's just for the night.' Molly was still unsure, her insecurities increasing. 'Meena was supposed to let me kip on her couch, but she had a family emergency.'

With her London flat emptied and her earthly belongings packed away in a temporary storage unit, Molly had no place to stay for her last night in London. The original plan was to stay with Meena, a final girls' night consisting of wine and, most likely, tears. Meena had been a dear friend for years. She worked as a lab tech at Bart's and was often the listening ear and voice of reason for Molly's woes over a certain Consulting Detective. But a frantic Meena had rung her earlier that day that her brother had a row with his wife that morning and needed a place to crash. Though it was the first she'd heard of Meena having a brother, Molly said she understood keeping it to herself that she was more than a bit disappointed and sad that they wouldn't be able to properly say goodbye.

Mrs. Hudson, _Martha_, simply turned around and began filling the kettle. 'Don't you worry, it's not often I have company. It'll be nice to have some girl talk around here.'

Molly hummed distractedly and sat stiffly at the table.

_It was going to be a long night._

* * *

><p>'Mrs. Hudson!'<p>

Head lolling over the back of his chair, Sherlock bellowed for his landlady.

Tea. He needed tea. Or biscuits.

Maybe a vienetta.

He groaned and jumped to his feet.

He wasn't Mycroft. He wouldn't feed his feelings. Not that he had feelings. No, he most certainly did not.

The list in his mind taunted him. Of all the detractions and benefits of giving in to sentiment, Sherlock logically determined that it was better to be without such a risky attachment. But the final addition at the very bottom unexpectedly tilted the scale.

Molly had given her love freely, poured her heart into helping him despite what everyone thought. She hadn't placed him on a pedestal of what she thought him to be, but instead saw him as fully human and called him out when he was wrong. She even had the courage to slap him for his failure, the disappointment in her eyes far more humbling than all three slaps. She was strong when he was weak and she had never turned her back on him, despite all he had put her through.

Her love for him made her stronger.

He sat up in his chair almost in surprise as the words seemed to echo in his mind.

Though he would never admit it aloud, Mary was right. He cared for Molly. He more than cared for her, he loved her. For all her quirks and awkwardness, for her courage and her loyalty, for the way she stood up to him and laid it all on the line.

He groaned and fought down the bile rising in his throat at the memory of how he had responded. Her face appeared in his mind, the hollowness in her eyes as he tore her heart to pieces, the way she seemed to visibly shatter.

'Mrs. Hudson!' He shouted again, ignoring the slightly elevated pitch in his voice. 'Tea!'

When a few minutes passed and no landlady carrying a tray of digestives barged through the door, he sighed heavily and went to open the door to shout again. She was probably watching one of her crap telly programs and couldn't hear him. And he needed tea. If he was going to 'think through his feelings,' he needed abundant sustenance.

* * *

><p>Martha had finished putting together a tray, chatting endlessly as Molly sat at the small table in the kitchen, when Sherlock's last bellow made its way down the stairs.<p>

'Molly, dear. I can't possibly make it up those stairs another time today. My hip, you know,' she explained as she patted the offending body part. 'Would you be a dear and take Sherlock his tea and biscuits?'

Ever the compassionate one, Molly bit back her anxiousness and mutely took the heavy-laden tray. 'Of course.' She forced a smile as Mrs. Hudson patted her cheek appreciatively.

As quietly as possible, Molly tip-toed up the stairs, willing her rapidly-beating heart to slow down. The door to 221B was closed and no sound issued from the other side. Resisting the urge to breathe a sigh of relief as she made it to the top with nary a sound, she carefully lowered the tray to the floor in front of the closed door, the tea cups rattling slightly in their saucers. She'd knock and then immediately run down the stairs. Even Sherlock Holmes' could pick up a tray from the landing.

Just as she was about to stand up, the door flew open and she found herself staring at a pair of bare feet. A pair of bony, masculine bare feet. Specifically, Sherlock Holmes' bare feet.

'Molly!' Sherlock exclaimed from somewhere above her crouched position.

Molly immediately jumped to her feet, her heart thundering in surprise. 'Sherlock! I was just…You wanted tea and Mrs. Hudson's hip, you know…' She blushed furiously under his incredulous stare. He was clad in loose pajamas and a dressing gown, his curls tousled endearingly and his eyes wide with surprise. She swallowed thickly and blinked back a rush of tears. 'I'll just be going.'

Molly whirled about and nearly flew down the stairs, leaving him staring after her in bafflement.

She very nearly hurled herself into the safety of Mrs. Hudson's flat, tears pricking her eyes and the pain in her heart constricting her breathing.

'Are you alright, dear?'

Mrs. Hudson poked her head around the corner from the kitchen, motherly concern in her eyes.

Molly hesitantly nodded, but her chin trembled at the effort not to give in to a good cry. Seeing Sherlock again, without his trademark armor of a well-tailored suit and Belstaff, was like a sock to the heart. He had looked so comfortable and warm. Like home.

She bit her lip hard and pressed her head back against the door behind her as bitter tears marked their way down her face, shaking her head.

It was still sinking in. She was leaving everything she'd known for more than ten years. London, St. Bart's, her friends… Sherlock.

And it felt like she was leaving the closest thing to _home_ that she had known since her father passed.

'Oh, my sweet girl.' It was Martha's voice, rich in compassion as she pulled the younger woman into a tight embrace, that was Molly's undoing. With a hiccuping sob, she buried her face into Martha's shoulder and broke.

All the pain she'd buried came flooding over her as the strength to carry on that she'd managed to scrape by on since she had made her decision to leave withered and died.

She was leaving the only place she called home.

And it hurt as much as giving up on Sherlock.

* * *

><p>With a motherly kiss to Molly's pale, tear-stained cheek, Martha closed the door to her guest room and leaned against it with a sigh.<p>

All Molly's sorrow had been held in and when the floodgates finally opened, the poor girl had cried herself to exhaustion. Martha's heart broke for her. They had sat on the small sofa, Martha brushing a gentle hand through the younger woman's hair in attempt to comfort her. The cuckoo clock had not even struck nine o'clock when Molly's sobs subsided and she blearily asked where to freshen up.

Martha insisted she change for bed, knowing her mid-morning flight the next day would be twice as miserable if she didn't sleep well, especially after such an emotional evening. By the time Martha had fixed her a glass of warm milk, Molly was already asleep.

Heart heavy, Martha quietly made her way to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

She started in surprise to see a shadowy figure sitting at her kitchen table.

'You Holmes' boys will be the death of me one day,' she chided, filling the kettle. 'Tea?'

Mycroft declined with a smile. 'Thank you, but I must be off in a few minutes. I merely stopped by upon being informed by dear brother has flown the coop. He left Baker Street no less than thirty minutes ago. I wanted to ask if you or Miss Hooper had any interaction with him since this afternoon.'

'Molly brought up a tray for him earlier. She came back within a minute or so, but after that,' Martha tsked sadly. 'The poor dear was a mess.'

'I see.' Mycroft raised his eyebrows, clearly understanding something Martha did not. He stood and, in a rather unexpected display of gallantry, he placed a gentle kiss on the back of her hand. 'Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.'

'For what?' Martha blushed at his gentlemanly display. No wonder the man was so powerful, he certainly had a way with charm.

Mycroft smiled softly. 'For taking care of them both.' He straightened his waist coat and bowed in farewell. 'Now, I must put the next steps in motion. I expect I shall see you soon. Until then, good night.'

Twirling his umbrella, he gracefully left the flat, locking the door expertly behind him.

Martha giggled as she watched him leave. Oh, were she twenty years younger, that man would be all kinds of trouble for her.


End file.
